possess such alleviatings--had been the study of feet,
pantaloons, and skirts. The trousers in this case detained my
observation no time. They were but the darkest corner of the
chiaroscuro of a Rembrandt--the mellow glow of gold was all
across the grey skirt.

How shall I explain myself, how make myself understood? Shall I
be thought sentimentalistic or but mad when I declare that my
first sight of the grey pongee skirt caused me a thrill of
excitation, of tenderness, and--oh-i-me!--of self-
consciousness more acute than all my former mortifications. It
was so very different from all other skirts that had shown
themselves to me those sad days, and you may understand that,
though the pantaloons far outnumbered the skirts, many hundreds
of the latter had also been objects of my gloomy observation.

This skirt, so unlike those which had passed, presented at once
the qualifications of its superiority. It had been constructed
by an artist, and it was worn by a lady. It did not pine, it did
not droop; there was no more an atom of hanging too much than
there was a portion inflated by flamboyancy; it did not assert
itself; it bore notice without seeking it. Plain but exquisite,
it was that great rarity--goodness made charming.

The peregrination of the American trousers suddenly stopped as
they caught sight of me, and that precious skirt paused,
precisely in opposition to my little table. I heard a voice,
that to which the skirt pertained. It spoke the English, but not
in the manner of the inhabitants of London, who seem to sing
undistinguishably in their talking, although they are